shaking hands
by CalPal052699
Summary: "It's still so hard to believe, so hard to think about, so hard to deal with. He's back in New York. Alexis and Martha are with him, were on the plane with him. They called her the minute they landed, and he called her last night, perfectly healthy, as happy as possible, and comforting her even though he's the one that almost died only a couple days ago." Dreamworld 6x02 post-ep


**This one-shot kind of took on a life of it's own about two hundred words in, so really, it turned out way different (and longer) than I had planned. A look into Kate's mind when she goes back to work after Dreamworld, a McCord/Beckett conversation and a lot of Caskett talk/thought.**

* * *

It's still so hard to believe, so hard to think about, so hard to deal with.

He's back in New York. Alexis and Martha are with him, were on the plane with him. They called her the minute they landed, and he called her last night, perfectly healthy, as happy as possible, and comforting _her _even though he's the one that almost died only a couple days ago.

At work, though, things aren't nearly as easy. She can barely look at the room where she broke the news to him that he was supposed to have less than a day to live. Everytime she makes herself a cup of coffee, she finds herself thinking about his complaints on it's taste, bringing her back to their first weeks of partnership, when he had the same complaints at the precinct. And every single time she gets in her car, she can practically see him getting out of it, pale and clammy, and collapsing onto the grass.

She's officially made those hours some of the worst of her life. The fear had been nearly paralyzing sometimes, and yet it pushed her to do things she'd never do under other circumstances. She had been short of breath on multiple occasions, letting her fingers brush his as they stood side by side and wondering if she'd ever feel his large and around her again, watching him walk away, not knowing if he'd be alive the next day, the next hour even. Her hands and been shaking violently the entire day that he had been poisoned. She's pretty sure she had been more scared than he had been.

And it certainly doesn't take a room full of FBI agents to realize that she's still not over it, that she still shakes with fear that she'll get a phone call saying that he's dead. Or that she'll wake up from the dream where he's okay to find him dead, laying in the grass outside Reid's house, the antidote nowhere to be found, and unable to help him anyway. She's still scared that her fiance is dying.

Sitting in his hospital room, they had gotten into an argument over whether or not he knew what she had been going through that day. It hadn't been a heavy argument, well, not one that would put any damper on their relationship. In fact, the argument had been lightened by the underlying happiness that came with his survival, the smile on her face wide and not fading as she sat by his bedside in the hours after he woke.

He had claimed her knew exactly what she had gone through, bringing up the painful memory of her shooting and the words half-ignored for a while but never forgotten, the way he watched her die, bleed, a bullet in her chest in his arms on the red-stained grass. Scared of never knowing if she heard him, of never knowing if she knew that he loved her more than he ever loved any other woman before.

She had disagreed, keeping her voice soft as she explained that things were different now. This time, they had a future, a promise of a life together, a wedding, a family. Always, the promise exchanged between them for years, even before they were together. Always, the promise made so much more real by the ring that hangs around her neck, joining her mother's on the dip of her chain, between her breasts, over her heart—her engagement ring, given to her by him. This time, he was really her _everything, _her _always,_ and losing him would break her more than anything else.

Eventually, they had given it up, agreed that both times were extremely difficult in different ways. She had curled up beside him in his bed after her talk with McCord, pressed soft and loving kisses to his next, needing to feel him, to feel his pulse under her lips. It was the only thing telling her he was alive, the antidote had worked, his arms tightening around her as if he knew she needed it, needed to have proof that everything was going to be okay.

She had hated herself for it at the time, being the one that was falling apart even though he was the one that had been a breath away from death. But now, she longs for the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her like they were that night, needs to know he's okay.

Now, she starting to wonder if taking this job in DC was the right decision, after all. And she knows it's the fear, the only beginning to fade grief that she had let herself feel even before he was dead, talking, telling her that she should be in New York with him. She knows that in a few weeks, it'll be just another event on their list of near-death experiences.

One day, they'll look back at this week, just like the shooting early on in their relationship, when he saved her life, the day her apartment blew up, the day in the freezer, when he defused the bomb, when the bank exploded, when they saved the linchpin, when she almost fell off the roof, when she they had defused that second bomb only seconds before it was set to blow up beneath her. This, his poisoning is just the latest entry on a long list that she knows is probably nowhere near finished yet.

This knowledge doesn't stop her heart from beating faster every single time her phone rings, or her hands from shaking the minute she's holding something in them, or even when they're hanging at her sides. It doesn't stop her from peaking in direction of the room where he had been sat down, where his blood had been taken, where she had taken his hand, called him babe and told him he was going to die. It doesn't stop her glancing twice at every screen she walks by, just to make sure it's footage of their new case and not of the one they just wrapped.

And, apparently it doesn't stop the tears from falling, because she feels a hand on her shoulder, and she doesn't really care who it is, lets them lead her into the interrogation room next to the one that haunts her in what she knows is purposeful avoidance. Whoever it is behind her, she mentally thanks them. She's pretty sure she wouldn't of been able to handle sitting in that room right now.

It's not until she sitting down in one chair, the one the interrogator uses, that the other person walks around the table to sit in the chair the interrogee sits in. She's half surprised—maybe more—to see the familiar, curly, espresso colored hair, the chiseled features and the slight bags below pale grey eyes that belong to McCord. She's her partner now, yes, but being partners in the FBI is very different from being partners in the NYPD, she realized that only days into her new job, and knows it's not just because she's still the new girl.

Being partners in the FBI means that you help solve the case. It means that when one person loses their gun, their partner is still holding one. It means that you get to hear their voice first thing in their morning, the ringing of your cellphone at their call taking the place of an alarm on most days. In the FBI, it means a quick congratulations and goodbye before you leave, to see the early on the next morning. Partners in the FBI are exactly that, partners. There's no aspect of friendship here, at least not the same way there is back at the NYPD.

Over these past few months, she's come to miss that friendly atmosphere—even as the air is thick and dark with the reality of death, of murder—that the Twelfth Precinct had brought into her life from her very first days there. Besides Castle, it's the thing she misses the most about her old job.

She and McCord are no different from the other teams here in the FBI. They aren't exactly friends, more like co-workers, acquaintances. They don't talk much about their life outside of work, outside of the cases they've worked on together over the past couple of months. In fact, she has no idea if McCord is married, has a family, is from DC, or anything about her personal life. The only things McCord knows about her are that she's from New York, that she's engaged to Richard Castle—obviously—and now, after the poisoning, that Castle lives with his mother and daughter. She doesn't want to ask, though. She's not going to break the unspoken boundaries of these partnerships.

She came to DC two months ago knowing that no matter who her partner was, they would never compare to her partnership with Castle—a fact made fairly obvious by the ring that hangs around her neck, the she slips onto her left ring finger when she misses him more than usual, like when a case reminds her of him or when their phone call is cut short, or canceled because of her job. Somehow, having the ring on her finger instead of on the chain makes her feel closer to him, feels more real, more intimate, in a strange way. That's where the ring is meant to be worn, that's where he placed it when he gave it to her.

The first time she slipped it there was after a particularly hard case that practically screamed his name. That particular case had held all the makings of a case he would love, one that would have him twisting crazy theories that she's pretty sure even he doesn't usually believe, but that make her laugh despite the horrifying reality of what their case entails. That evening, she had slowly slipped the buttons of her button-down out of the material holding them in place, let her fingers roll the pair of cool metal rings hanging down between her breasts. She had unclasped the chain, a practiced flick of her thumb, the slight grasp of her fingers keeping it from tumbling to the ground as it fell from her neck. She had slipped the ring he had given her off the simple, white gold chain and into her palm, setting her mother's ring, still on the chain, aside.

Slipping the ring onto her finger herself wasn't at all the same as feeling his large yet nimble—the countless hours typing away at a keyboard—ones slipping it onto hers, the brush of his rough fingertips against the soft skin of the back of her hand, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the heat that had engulfed her body as pure joy took over when she saw him down on one knee, the moment when it finally dawned on her that he wants this, everything, a future with her.

Even now, after two months of engagement, after many late night phone calls and early morning video chats, kisses pressed to her phone's camera, the incredible sound of his laugh coming through the phone. After months of being engaged, of the promise of a wedding, a future, a family hanging around her neck, in the word fiance, in the 'I love you's exchanged before the tone signaling the end of their call sounded. Even now, it all seems so surreal, so incredibly, amazingly, impossibly surreal, like an image out of her wildest dreams.

She's wearing the ring today, on her finger instead of around her neck. It felt right this morning. It's her first day back after getting, thankfully, a few caseless days that she was able to spend with him, even though he was still recovering from his near-death experience. And coming back in, she made the slightly surprising decision to only slip the ring off her finger if she was stuck in the interrogation room with a suspect, still not wanting them to see her weak point. Now, she knows any mention of her fiance would make her weaker than it ever would've before.

She's pretty sure McCord noticed the ring shortly after her arrival, the big, round diamond sparkling in the light as her left hand circled her coffee cup. Rachel's eyes had fallen to her hand briefly, the ring something she had never seen up until this morning. Her eyebrows had raised slightly as she took in the not-so-discreet engagement ring before she turned back to the SmartBoard she had been looking at, explaining quickly what little knowledge they had at the time.

Now, they know a little more. They have a suspect, and are waiting on tech to get security footage that would be the first step in confirming their theory. That's why she's surprised that McCord is sitting across from her. Much like herself, her partner is very invested in her work, wanted to get justice as quickly and painlessly as possible. McCord liked watching every single step of the investigation, and dragging her into an interrogation room isn't exactly part of said investigation.

Quite the opposite, in fact. This is personal, and they both know it. This has nothing to do with the investigation, nothing to do with work, and everything to do with conversations they've never had, with the love life she rarely talks about, the fiance she left in New York so she could work here in DC. This has everything to do with nothing her and McCord ever talk about.

But when she looks up and meets her partner's eyes, the pale grey orbs are filled with something she's never seen in them, at least, not in regards to her. Sincere worry, genuine concern fills them, slightly masked by the rather emotionless look they often hold, the unattached look that she knows all too well, that she's seen in her own eyes way too many times.

"You're wearing your ring," is the first thing she says, a seemingly simple comment that actually holds so much. As an FBI agent, McCord has a talent for observation, and ring like the one currently circling her finger is something she wouldn't miss. And after two months of not seeing it, as an expert in deciphering messages unspoken, it's no secret that McCord knows that the fact that she's actually wearing the ring for everyone to see today means something.

She shrugs, trying to downplay how much this really means. Even in New York, even if she was still just an NYPD detective and not an FBI agent, she wouldn't wear the ring at work. Even spending every day with him at her side, the ring would be hanging on the chain around her neck. And it's not that she doesn't like the ring, that she's embarrassed or trying to hide her engagement. It's just a weakness, a look into her personal life that her suspects don't need to see, to know about. "It felt right."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" she asks, the sincerity in her eyes catching her off guard. Last time McCord asked if she wanted to talk about 'it', the it coming back to Castle under these two very different sets of circumstances, she had been happy when she responded with a sure no. At the time, her personal life was still as personal as possible. Besides meeting him, and getting extremely annoyed with him, McCord still knew nothing about her relationship with Castle.

This time, though, it's different. This time, McCord knows more than she had last time. This time, she's witnessed her fight for her fiance's life with everything in her, with a passion that only comes out when he's in danger, a passion that had always come out when he's in danger, even before they were together, and that has only intensified since. This time, McCord has seen her holding his hand, sitting beside his hospital bed, anxiously awaiting his waking. This time, her partner has a little more insight into her relationship, into her personal life.

"If I say yes, will you tell me you were just trying to be nice?" she asks, not quite ready to get into it, not wanting to say more than McCord wants to hear, not wanting to show her cards until she knows Rachel wants to see them.

"No. If you say yes, I'll treat you like I would ask you when he proposed, try to understand your relationship a little more," she answers, once again catching her off guard. She's always considered herself a rather good judge of character with an eye for body language. McCord is shooting all that to the ground today, though, surprising her with almost every word that comes out of her mouth.

"You wanna know when he proposed?" she asks, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice, her tone slightly higher pitched than usual. At Rachel's nod, she looks down at her hands, the moment already flooding her mind, the emotions she felt that day rushing through her veins quickly as her heart speeds up like it did that day on the swings. The fingers of her right hand spin the ring around her finger on the left, the diamond barely brushing her pinky and middle finger with every round. "About a week before I moved here," he explains softly, looking up to meet her partner's eyes. "It was about a week before I moved here.

Earlier that week, I had come here for the interview. I took a quick flight here, did the interview and then hopped on another short flight back. I got to our crime scene a little late because I came here, but I just couldn't let the opportunity pass me by. I didn't tell anyone about it, not even Castle. I didn't know where we were going, where our relationship was going.

You know, he waited four years to be with me, saved my life more times than I can count, and I've saved his almost just as much. He's always been there for me. And for years, I was sure that if—I mean, when—we ended up together he would be my last. But once we got together… At first it was amazing, new and fresh and...borderline perfect after four years of preparing to be together. But as time went on...I had expected our relationship to move quickly from there on out, but we never talked much about the future, besides a few innocent comments here and there.

Anyways, I didn't know where we were going, and I kinda didn't think I'd get the job, so I didn't tell him about the interview. But he found out, and we got into a big fight over it. We were both doubting our relationship, I think. I went to my dad for advice, he went to his mom, I went to my best friend. We were so...lost, almost. And I was so confused, because I loved—love—him, so much, and I really didn't want to lose him, but I thought we were going to break up.

We met up in the park, on a swingset—our swingset—and he started talking...like he was going to break up with me. I thought he was going to break my heart, and next thing I knew he was on one knee. I was so surprised, more surprised than I had been in...who knows how long. I didn't even say yes at first, probably scared him because I was confusing even myself with me mixed up answer. In the end, I told him I got the job and he told me he couldn't imagine his life without me, and I said yes. Now, I realize I can't imagine my life without him, either."

"Wow…" says Rachel, bringing Beckett's attention back to her, making her snap out of the memories, the haze they had put her in. McCord is smiling, but her eyes are wide as if shocked by the story, by the rather long-winded story that she had just been told, by the emotion she heard in her partner's voice, something you rarely hear in this line of work.

In the FBI, or in most law-enforcement jobs, emotions were rarely seen. It was a part of the job, keeping your feelings in one place, away from your job. Getting emotionally involved can be detrimental, under various circumstances. As a detective, as an agent, getting emotionally involved renders you compromised, makes it so much harder to solve your case. In fact, being emotionally involved can get you kicked off a case, since your objectivity in compromised. It's one of the reasons Kate doesn't wear her engagement ring, because people can compromise her by using her personal life, her emotions against her.

And here, in the FBI, when your partnerships are nothing but professional, your co-workers are co-workers, not friends like Ryan and Esposito and Lanie and even Montgomery were, seeing the emotional side of your fellow agents is rare, extremely rare. Beckett had learned to hide them, to put on a straight face and eyes of steel, make the feelings go away for a fleeting moment. The few times she's failed on the job, she got lost in the rabbit hole again, or triggered her PTSD. McCord has a skill for hiding her feelings, too, and seeing the smile on her face, the slightly awestruck look in her usually cold, emotionless grey eyes, it shocks her to see, makes her heart speed up a bit at the almost-realization that there is so much more to her partner than the by-the-books, smart, resourceful agent she works with daily.

"He waited for you for four years?" she asks, making Kate smile sheepishly.

She's always wondered if things would've worked out had they given in sooner, had she said yes to his invite for memorial day weekend in the Hamptons, had she been five seconds earlier in their hotel room in LA, had she told him the truth in her hospital room that day. Now, it's hard to believe that they were even able to wait for years to feel a love so true, so undeniable, to live a life so amazing, together. She still blames herself for the long wait, even though he continuously tells her that it was for the best, that the relationship they have now is worth countless years of waiting.

"Yes. I still can't believe it, even now that we're engaged." The admission is soft, a blush rising to her cheeks as the words slip from her lips. She doesn't talk about how amazed she is at how far they've come, even now with all the promises exchanged, the love constantly flowing between them, traveling across any distance, and the many nights she's spent wrapped in his arms, the intimacy of it all blowing any other relationship out of the water.

She's been in serious enough relationships before, been with men she could see herself enjoying a future with. She's been in love before. Or at least, that's what she's always told herself. He's told her before that the main reason neither one of his past marriages worked out was because he didn't love Meredith nor Gina. His marriage to Meredith had been pretty much everything a marriage shouldn't be, quick and not though through, thought to be obligated and forced, unloving and unfaithful. His marriage to Gina had been short, an attempt to say he knew what love was, to give Alexis a family, to make his little girl happy—a failed attempt, as he once told her.

When she had asked him why he married them, Gina specifically, if, like he claims now, he didn't love them. His response had been simple, that he thought he did at the time, that he didn't know what love was at the time. He let it slip that they that because of her he finally knows what love is, what it means to be _in love_ with someone. When he said it, and every single time she lets her mind drift to that particular conversation, she realizes that it applies just as much to her as it does to him. He was right that day over two years ago, she used to hide in relationships with men she didn't love, no matter how much she told herself, convinced herself she did.

She didn't know what love was, but she does now. Love is what they share, the connection, the undeniable need for each other, the pain she feels at seeing him in pain, and vice versa. It's the way she feels when she sees him, the way her heart rate instantly speeds up when his voice comes through her phone, or when his face appears on the small screen—and in the way her whole body heats up when she sees him, like it did when he caught her off guard in her bathroom only about a week ago. Love is the ache she constantly feels when she's away from him. Love is the smile on her face right now, as she twists the cold metal of her ring around her finger, her thoughts getting the best of her until McCord clears her throat.

"You really love him." It's not a question, it's a statement, one that brings her back to one of her final moments in New York, the moment they told her dad about their engagement. Jim had asked Rick pretty much exactly what McCord just stated, catching Castle off guard. His answer had been stuttered—even though all three of them knew he loves her more than anything—but hers is sure.

"I do. I've never been more scared than I was when I thought he was going to die," she says, her voice strong and sure, surprisingly steady. Her eyes lock on the grey ones belonging to her partner, and she lets the one corner of her mouth tilt upwards slightly, despite how somber her previous statement was. It's the truth, she's never been more scared than just a couple days ago when her fiance, her one and done, climbed out of her car and collapsed into the grass.

Even as a nineteen-year-old, right after her mom died, her dad lost in the bottom of the bottle, draining every single drop of alcohol she could find—she had never been that scared. Standing in that alley, she hadn't been nearly as scared—grieving, and yes, frightened, but not nearly as much as just a few days ago. Facing death, a bullet in her chest, hanging off a roof, standing right in front of Bracken—she's never been nearly that scared, and the only reason she was scared at all was because of her regrets in regards to her relationship with Castle. She lets that realization fall over her, silently letting the depth of her feelings for him dawn on her—even after over five years of partnership, of suppressed feelings, and a year of letting him be her everything, she's never really realized how much she _needs _him to live.

"I'm more scared of his death than my own," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper since she's speaking more to herself than to McCord now. She's never loved anyone as much as she loves Rick Castle, and she's known that since the moment in L.A. when he told her she was a mystery he was never going to solve—he still hasn't, like he said, he never will. She was still with Josh when it dawned on her that day that no one would ever compare to her partner, and she almost acted upon it about a year and a half prematurely. Now though, now she can admit to everyone. Now, pretty much everyone knows. Now, she's getting married to him. And now, right now she's realizing that she values his life above anyone else's, including her very own.

"That's because you love him," says Rachel, breaking Kate from her thoughts with a slight headshake and a few rapid blinks. She's takes a second to let her eyes focus on her new partner, the other corner of her mouth tilting upwards so a closed-lip smile comes across her face, sweet and content, the one she knows she gets every single time someone points out how much she loves her fiance. She doesn't say anything though, denial pointless and confirmation unnecessary. McCord knows, no matter what she says, whether she tries to deny it or bothers to confirm it, pretty much everyone knows. "But you have to be careful, Kate." The sudden use of her first name surprises her, making her nod slowly.

McCord has never called her by her first name, ever. It's a professional relationship between the two of them, no real emotional, friendly connection had even began to poke out of the ground until only two days ago, much less blossomed. Even more out of the ordinary, though, is the fact that the usual emotionless, nothing but determined look in her Rachel's eyes is gone, replaced by a look she's seen in her own way too often, much less now, though, thanks to Castle. She's sad, her eyes glossed over slightly. She looks almost distant, as if she's remembering something.

Kate doesn't say anything, doesn't know what to say. This is new, uncharted territory. She's not good at emotional talks anyway, not with anyone, including the boys, Castle and even Lanie. She's gotten a little more comfortable with them now, since that fateful day she showed up at his doorstep. He's helped her through so much, allowed her to open up about her feelings no matter how dark, and no matter how long it took her. He still does—it's one of the things she loves about him. But having emotional conversations with McCord is a whole other story. She doesn't know McCord like she knows Rick—obviously. She doesn't know anything about McCord. However, when she opens her mouth to speak, Beckett realizes she's going to learn something about her, after all.

"This job ruins relationships, Kate. I know better than anyone." She swallow hard and nods slowly, waiting for McCord to continue, to explain why she knows how badly the job can ruin a relationship better than anyone else. "I was married when I joined. We're separated now," she says, her voice holding a hint of somberness Kate has never heard in her voice before, true emotion beyond the usual determination to solve their case. Sometimes, McCord reminds her a lot of herself. "You don't need to know the details, but even though we both lived in DC, it was hard. I could never talk about my day. And he wanted to start a family, but I thought it was too dangerous, with my job and all."

Kate swallows hard, realizing for once that McCord actually does have feelings, does have a life outside the job—wondering for a split second if maybe people had been this surprised to find out she had a life and feelings outside of work. She knows Rick wants them to have a family. _God, _she wants them to have a family. But McCord is right, this job is dangerous. She would hate to be pregnant and out on the field, or risking her life with a child back home, spending every single day putting her own child through what she went through. This job, it ruined her relationship, her marriage, and her and her unnamed ex weren't even long-distance. What does that mean for her?

"I don't think we were meant to work, though. I happen to believe that if something's meant to work out, it will find a way. So, I'm not saying this job will ruin your relationship. What I'm saying, Kate, is don't give it the chance," she explains, words soft, wise and understandable, spoken from the heart, lessons learnt from experience. "Now, I know you don't control when we get a case, or when your trips to New York are canceled. But, you know, Kate, he's allowed in DC. He's just not allowed to get involved in our cases." Kate finds herself smiling a little wider, even though her usual reaction would be a scowl. Somehow, though, she knows McCord is just looking out for her. Somehow, this conversation that should be incredibly awkward considering their lack of past personal conversations, is easy. She can't help but think that it's because McCord is so much like herself, just with a little more life experience in other aspects of life.

"I know. I'm just...scared. We almost broke up because I came here...and I don't even know why that's what worries me so much, considering…" she trails slowly, looking down at her hands, her right index and thumb still spinning the ring on her left ring finger slowly. She brushes her thumb over the diamond, smiling at the coolness of it—the white gold warmed because of the friction between it and her skin. "And now, I don't want him to get hurt because of my job. I can't go through that again. He would die for me. And I would die for him. But I can't live without him."

"I know. I saw you, Kate. I've never seen you like that," says McCord, eyes still locked on hers. "I've never seen you like that. You would've done anything to get that antidote and save his life," she adds softly, her voice holding a hint of awe that Beckett hasn't heard from any of her fellow FBI agents since her arrival, her being the new girl and all and still being used to the NYPD ways of doing things. But this, this isn't about how she solves a case, it's about her raw desperation to keep a single person alive, even if it means threatening, yelling, getting hurt, killing or even dying.

"I've always been most desperate when it came to saving his life. Nothing…nothing compares to the feeling I get when he's on the verge of death," she admits softly, remembering the various times he's been on the verge of death, the one that stands out the most being the time he was almost sent to a prison where he would be killed for a crime he didn't commit. She had never been more desperate to prove someone innocent, nor to prove someone guilty. And that's saying a lot, considering her absolute desperation to get Bracken behind bars for what he did to her mother.

"You guys have been through a lot, I assume. I mean, there's a few things I know about, like that thing with 3XK, when he was framed"—Kate almost coughs at the fact that that's exactly what she had just been thinking about, like two seconds ago—"and your shooting, that must of been hard." She just nods. The shooting is still a sore subject, especially with people who aren't him. They've come past that day, but it'll never be a topic of conversation they'll ever like, or one they'll ever be comfortable around. She's really only okay with talking about that horrible, horrible day when his arms are wrapped around her, keeping her safe, making her feel safe like only he ever can. In any other situation, with anyone else, it brings back horrible memories of lying on the grass with a bullet in her chest, of the lies that followed.

Her face must of drained of color—Castle once pointed out that it happened whenever he brought it up, told her that it upset him, brought him back to how pale she looked against the bright green grass and dark red blood—because McCord's eyes widen a fraction, mouth still slightly open in preparation to say something she doesn't actually say. And then she swallows hard, joining her hands and fidgeting a bit. Beckett opens her mouth to speak, to tell her it's okay, but no words come out. She realizes, in the back of her mind, that McCord has probably been through difficult things as well—perhaps not shot in the heart at a dear friend's funeral, but difficult all the same. She's an FBI agent somewhere, and started somewhere else. Jobs in law enforcement are never easy. There's always risks, there's always the chance of being injured, or killed. She knows that McCord has probably been on the verge of death, as well. She probably—most definitely—has things she hates talking about, too.

"I'm sorry, Beckett. I didn't mean to...I know it must be hard...to talk about...and all," she apologizes, trailing in between words as if drifting between the present time and a memory. Kate can't help but be reminded of one of her own, more recent PTSD flashbacks, safe in the loft, a thunderstorm roaring outside, the thunder bringing her back to another previous PTSD attack, a little less than two years ago, in the privacy of her apartment. Thunderstorms have always been bad—as soon as they're announcing one Castle plans a quiet evening in, wrapped in each other's arms, covered in blankets, a light and happy romantic comedy playing on the TV, loudly enough to keep her from reacting to horribly to the cracks of thunder outside.

"Sorry," says McCord, as if breaking out of her own thoughts, breaking Kate out of hers with the simple word. "You probably don't want to hear this, but my partner was shot once. He didn't make it," she says softly, watching her carefully as if expecting her to freak out. Oddly enough, hearing of other people's experiences with being shot haven't triggered attacks since the first few months after her shooting, She hears about them so much, having been a homicide detective and all. "It's strange to think...I don't like him, and you know that...but Castle...he could've been me. He could've lost you that day. He almost did." Kate finds herself nodding slowly. She knows how true that statement is.

"He would've been fine, though," she says. That's what she always says. Every single time they find themselves emotional and recalling that day, tears unshed in both their eyes until they fell into each other, loving and slow and sweet, a celebration of life, releasing that pain that will never fully go away, holding each other desperately as tears fall, but they're one and their happy and it's all they can ask for, on some days. Some days, all they need is to be alive, and to have each other to lean on. But when he tells her he would've been torn apart had she died that day, she tells him he would've been okay. He's strong, he has people who love him, he has Martha and Alexis and his books.

If he dies, she has no one but the dead for whom she gets justice, or tries to. Without him, if he dies, she'll most likely end up back in that rabbit hole, perhaps in the bottom of a bottle like her dad ended up. She knows one thing for sure: if he dies, she'll fall apart, and she's not ready to do that again. She'll never be ready to go through that again.

"No, Kate. I'd be willing to bet that exactly what you went through two days ago, that's what he went through that day," says McCord, and she's brought back to the hospital room where she had this very argument with him just two days ago. Now, though, she realizes he was right, he knows what it's like to almost lose the one person you love more than anything. "He loves you, Kate. He's willing to do anything for you. And you love him, too. That pain you went through, he knows it well, probably even better than you do. I bet he knows what it's like to walk into a building and imagine your face, to have his hands shake with fear because of the memories, to be scared, Kate. He might be feeling that way right now."

She nods, even as tears spring to her eyes at the reality of what's going on, of how he feels. Every single day, she's out here risking her life. She could've been the one in that car, unable to find the antidote. She can die at any given moment, be killed at any given moment. And with him in New York and her here, he probably feels even more helpless than she ever has, than she ever will. He risks his life for her, alongside her, and she's almost always there with him, ready to shoot whoever tries to harm him. But this, the long distance thing, makes it impossible for him to help. That feeling of pure helplessness, the one she felt two days ago when the lab tech told her and her team that _Mr. Castle has been poisoned. He has less than a day to live, _is what he feels every single day. This morning, when she walked into the office, shaking, ring on her finger, picturing him in the interrogation room, she felt the same way he felt when he spent three months at the precinct trying to find her shooter.

She wipes the tears from her eyes and off her cheeks, leaving wet smears one her skin, smears that glisten in the bright light of the room, with her left hand. The cold metal of her ring brushes against her skin, the wetness making it seem even colder. It also brings to her attention that she's shaking again, almost as much as she been in the freezer, but for a completely different reason. She sets her hand back on the table, the hard material keeping her hand steady as she places one over the other, the fingers of her right hand wrapping around the edge of her left, nails digging into the edge of her palm. McCord reaches over the table and gently sets her hand over her joined ones, only the slightest of touch before pulling away and standing up.

"I'm going to go check on the case, okay?" she asks. Kate nods and goes to stand up as well, her vision slightly blurred around the edges thanks to the persistent tears that continue to form in her eyes, her hands still shaking as she intertwines her fingers, leaving her coffee cup on the table, not trusting herself to hold it steady. "No, Beckett. You stay here. Take a moment, give him a call, make sure he's okay because that's what you need right now. And then come join us," she tells her, practically orders her. Kate nods, accepting the order. She wants—needs—to call him, anyway.

"Thank you, Rachel," she says softly, sees her partner's eyes widen slightly at the use of her first name. She can tell it's the beginning of even just a work friendship, but of something deeper than sharing a car on the way to certain places and waking up to her call to announce a case. She watches as McCord opens the door, hand remaining on the round metal knob as she turns back to once again face her.

"It was no problem, Beckett," she says softly before turning back and walking out the door, slowly closing it behind her, giving her the privacy she needs to make this phone call. She watches through the door's window as McCord's small figure shrinks as she walks away, towards the rest of their team who have been working on their case all morning. It makes her feel a little guilty, knowing she showed up last and has spent pretty much all her time since her arrival at work sitting in this very room.

It doesn't stop her from slipping her phone out of her jacket pocket, smiling at her new lock screen picture, one Alexis took of her and Castle curled up together in his hospital bed, both sound asleep. She swipes her thumb across the bottom of the screen, revealing her identical wallpaper, still smiling. It's a reminder that he survived, that he's alive and as well as to be expected, his daughter only a few minutes away, his mother living in the same apartment. He's safe, and she knows it, and she calls anyway.

Her hand stops shaking the minute she hears his voice.


End file.
